


konsten att leva

by slire



Category: 12 Angry Men (1957), Interstellar (2014), The Sacrifice (1986)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Philosophy, edging on the Brechtian Verfremdungseffekt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 00:04:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4039813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slire/pseuds/slire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The twelve Lazarus Expedition members spend their last three hours together before departure into the unknown. </p><p>The situation quickly devolves into madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	konsten att leva

_"I studied philosophy, history of religion, aesthetics. And ended up putting myself in chains. Of my own free will."_

— Alexander, Offret / The Sacrifice (1986), dir: Andrei Tarkovsky

.

.

All gifts require a sacrifice.

Even art.

.

.

**PROLOGUE**

An old map with an expensive frame hangs in the centre of the room. The place is structured like a summerhouse; one in which upper class families would spend a month away from work. Wallpaper in cream. Oaken furniture. Mix of modern and old. One of the lamps is a glasshouse; a green plant within. Paintings—some replicas, most real. Abstract. No portraits. De Kooning, Noland, Rothko, Mitchell, Rauschenberg, Frankenthaler. Most noticeably though are the the many book shelves which stretch along the walls with enough books to fill a small library. Physics. Matemathics. Literary theory. Religious texts. Shakespeare, Ibsen, Becket... Dostovjevsky, hidden away. Cinema, too. Tatskovky; Kubrick; Bergman; critical artists whose work are celebrated endlessly. But like Dostovjevsky, the critical and sad masters are hidden. The music provides no harm either, with records of —. Still, not a sound, not in the summerhouse nor outside it. No  _Dark Was The Night_  here, darling.

(A way of saying: I know your criticism against the human race exist, but I do not wish to know of it. Feel free to spill your load but we don't have to listen.)

...3 hours...

...180 minutes...

...10 800 seconds...

Starting  **now**.

The grandfather clock strikes nine in the evening. 21:00. It is activated along by a beeping computer—which is what the whole interplanetary spaceship  _is_ , technically—along with lights, one by one, waking the ghost ship up. Louis Armstrong starts playing.

Twelve biobeds are illuminated, all orchestrated around a single core, which administers the chemicals keeping them in cryosleep. The canopies open. Smoke pours out. So do the astronauts; men and women with doctorates in subjects of the sciences. Of course the humans are, well, human and therefore Procedure II is not as sterile and mechanic as the rest of the ship. For an example, Miller rips the plastic bag off and pukes all over herself; a lumpy, yellowish soup. It sloshes around in the bottom of her bag.

Mann lays a supportive hand on her shoulder and asks, "You okay there?"

"I'm fine," Miller squeaks.

Mann's smile is simple, warm. It's infective and Miller soon wears a matching expression. "Good. The rest of the crew are waiting in the dining area. We will congregate and share our meal together." Miller hastily dresses in clothes laid out for her; a suit exactly her size and of her taste. She follows Mann into the dining area.

After a few steps, expressionless grey walls crack and spoil into a lavish suite. It makes her think of a Christmas party or something equally happy and social, and the smiling faces of her colleges calm him. She sees Yashin Oita and Wong talk in low voices. Most of them admire the paintings or skim through the literature, making comments here and there which the others either answer with their own or nod in approval. Morin and Ostro argue about the meaning of The Bay (1963) and what Frankenthaler intended to say. They speak an enthusiastic mix of abbreviations and jargon and fond nicknames incomprehensible to the casual observer.

Above them is a beautiful planetarium. Stars like tiny gods or tiny people, far away. It projected fairytale illusions onto the walls and show the innocent their dreams. A shadow play for those who desperately wish for something eternal, for the power of miracles... However no place exists above this room. It is all technical, of course, as there would be far more blackness if it'd showed a true projection of the universe surrounding them. Stars equal hope. More stars equal more hope.

A dining bell is heard and the Twelve seat down on their chosen seats to admire the appetisers. Red wine. Italian, French, Spanish. The expensive stuff, old, stored. The wines are served according to their instructions; some are room temperature, others chilled. Fruit plates have been set out for the waiting: dates, melons, figs and pomegranates, with pecans and peppers and a big bowl of honey. It is machines that do the deed, connected to the main system. No juicy pre-ingested stew here; only the best for humanity's martyrs. They can eat all they want since it is their last meal. Jesu blood, jesu body.

Mann raises his glass. "To humanity."

"To humanity," the remaining eleven echo.

The truth is that none of them are friends. They've barely spoken previous to the mission: relationships were banned, so naturally, friendship amongst themselves was prohibited. The first idea was to give them numbers in lieu of names, but while anonymity is wanted, dehumanisation isn't. Total anonymity, but joined together in a single cause. A calm resides.

It does not last.

**PART I: FEAR**

10 minutes in, Ostro comments, "You look a bit pale there Miller."

"I'm fine."

"She vomited in his sleeping bag," Morin says, smirking.

Somov speaks with a tone one can never be certain is sarcastic or not, "If a bit of turbulence when waking scares you, how will you handle being spit through space—alone?"

Miller laughs, a tad too slow and too hysterical. Forced.  _Loud_. "HA HA HA." It is theatrical in its delivery and the table quiets as if confronted with some horrible truth, lurking just beneath the silk. Humans are the only animal who laugh. Miller grins, nervous nervous nervous, showing off pink gums.

( _'Ugly, wrinkled, hairless and pink like newly hatched insects. Humanity is a young species. Inexperienced, delusional, egoistical—having not accepted its place, ripping itself from Mother Earth's womb; not like a insect, lesser; a virus. Consciousness is a curse, a failed mutation in evolution.'_ )

It is not Miller thinking these things.

It is Somov.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asks. He sits like only an old man can sit, slightly stooping, neck long and thin with blue veins, eyes like he has seen it all and this fact has carved him hollow. Size 47 in shoes, once an actor and ideologically a Marxist; making the Americans onboard slightly nervous. Old habits die hard, despite the lot being multicultural. They're supposed to represent humanity, not the nations that split them. No one answer the question; they know the shuttle is ventilated from precious oxygen tanks. Precious, precious oxygen.

"It isn't recommended," Edmunds replies, a conservative by nature, slow, dry and logical. If Mann is the heart of this operation, then Edmunds is the mind. And Miller? Miller is the soul.

Somov does a barely-there movement of his head, showing that he has heard. The flabby skin on his neck quivers like a pelican's. A skeletal individual, but unnaturally strong. He'd once been an actor once, call-me-Henry Yashin had told in a hushed voice, but he'd then turned his attention to chemistry and somehow become an astronaut. He says, "A lot of things are not recommended," and lights a cigar. He uses a matchbox, not a lighter. Nostalgic.

"This mission certainly wasn't," Edmunds confirms harshly, not allowing Somov's statement to sink in and take root. Roots cause ideas, and ideas cause revolutions, and there is a particular hole in every revolution, like Oita had once stated. "However, we are all men and women of intellect so we understand the sheer importance of the mission we are taking. We understand what is in our hands. We  **understand**."

Somov ashes into his crystal wine glass. "We do?" His disbelief hangs in the air like the smoke from his cigarette.

"Yes," Edmunds answers. "We were elected to carry out this mission—with  **love**. I know they know we know. Words aren't necessairy."

Somov chokes on his wine, then sneers, "And what if our lives are thrown away for nothing?"

Mann, mission leader, steps in. He is steel. "Somov, what's the meaning of this? Are you trying to stir up doubt?"

"I am simply questioning our motives. I never was a fond of small talk, and I wish to spend my last three hours pursuing something challenging in lieu of shitty small talk. Grand things requires grand gestures, yes?"

Somov twirls his glass in his hand, sloshing the mix of wine and ash. "I had a dream, while sleeping… A vision."

"Oh c'mon," Oita says. Her fingers brush at a coat pocket, yearning (subconsciously?) for tobacco

"We're not artists," Yashin says. "We are men and women of logic, humans who are able to look above the crowd and view the greater good."

Somov's eyes are hard. "No. We are not any of that. We are  **martyrs**."

**PART II: DREAD**

"I did not take you for a religious person, Somov," Ostro comments, smirk only wavering a tad. An American protestant: firm believer in his church of pleasure, contrasting Yashin's catholic church of pain. He swallows a fried almond dipped in peculiar sugars mixed with roses and violets.

Most had been presented with a first course: a sugary, thick dish of chicken paste, rice and almond milk garnished with fried almonds and anise. The people from the eastern hemisphere preferred a dumping made of pounded, poached fish, breadcrumbs and eggs. The vegetarians had a colourful little garden with a decorative sliver of red sauce. Miller did not eat anything, and both Morin and Hale focused on their respective book. Also Oita chooses to abstain, saying that her stomach has been rather queasy since her awakening. Diarrhoea, Somov guesses. A nervous condition. 

"I find no comfort in the idea of a divine being," Somov replies. He gestures at Yashin to send him the absinthe. "But I find less comfort knowing that some of my fellow martyrs have deluded themselves."

"But delusion is fun," Pila exclaims, though there is a tremor in his voice.

Somov tch-es. "My mother was often ill. She rarely left her house. That one time she did, during a stay at the hospital along with our father, we cleaned it, my brother and me, cleaned the whole house from top to bottom. We discovered things like a thousand betting papers hidden under the pillows of father's favourite sofa and an old but big blood stain in a mattress—but we did not ponder about this, we just continued cleaning, with the hope that they'd be happy when returning. They were not. When they returned they…  **beat**  me. I had not been beaten since I was a child, yet my mother and father started rhythmically and statically beat both my and my brother, in turn. I was eighteen, yet I was taken over the lap like a child. Can anyone answer me why?"

PLEX, a robotic companion with its humour at 0%, stated, "I do not think sharing stressful childhood memories is beneficial for the crew, Mr. Somov. Please refrain from it."

"As someone with a minor in neuropsychology, I can agree on that," Hale says without looking up from his book.

"I disagree. Let the man say as he pleases. I do not see how philosophical pondering can cause our demise. And besides, a crew is not merged organisms or a hive-mind, a crew is a group of  _individuals_  who have decided to work with each other for their own good, but may leave when they want to." Surprisingly, it was Morin who disagreed; Morin the French; Morin the one with revolution in his blood. When he was drunk once he'd confessed to wishing to maximise the human race—and he could still not look Oita in the eye after she'd responded with _"There is one hole in every revolution, darling, and that hole is people."_

"And will you remain an individual if you're the one who goes through with plan B?" Lee, the humanist, asks and stands up, clinking his glass with a spoon. The truth hacks at Morin like a meat cleaver. The alcohol slows his mask and a peculiar sort of fear stretches his face, preludial to a more intense reaction. Morin the individual: ruined by the concept of collectivism. "Listen, I can understand your perceptive, but I think the exact opposite. I think our journey will be far worse. As a mental exercise by my government—in alliance with the US, of course—for my upcoming isolation, I spent six months at a deserted nuclear accident site. A town, blasted to pieces. Abandoned schools. Toys. Loneliness… I do not think you can understand true suffering until you have spent time alone in your own head and in your own world. My destruction will not be collectivism, like yours, Morin. My destruction, if it happens, will be from loneliness. Therefore I  **strongly**  advice you to take good care of your robotic companion, and engage in a continuous dialogue with it, preferably with a humour percentage that matches your own."

"Aye," Hale agrees and applauds him.

"Thank you for your speech," Mann says and joins in clapping, which most do, politely if not enthusiastic. Those who do not includes Somov, Morin, Oita (who looks as if she's gonna shit if she moves, sitting with a tightened ass and stiff legs) and Miller (same, but more vomit-focused). Somov keeps poking at his chicken.

Strangely, it is the most quiet which present the next argument: Ostro and Yashin. Both very Christian—as in, pious and white and hetrosexual. Both kept to themselves, needed no argument but God and nodded knowingly at Somov's martyr comment. However, a disagreement had spoiled their usual calm discussions. theologic or not. The root(s) of this disagreement is very simple: Ostro is protestant, and Yashin is catholic. Not much of a difference for the common observer but herein lies a difference in morals, shrouded beneath the thick silky veil of religion. Because historically, the catholic church is the church of pain, while the protestant church is the church of pleasure. Yashin is arguing for the merit of suffering, while Ostro seeks reward. "…Only a man who has suffered has the right to call himself an adult," Yashin says.

"Jesus, Henry," Oita comments, one hand on her rumbling, hurting stomach.

"Stay out of this," Yashin warns her. "It does not concern you."

Even the godly feel fear.

Sounds like something Somov could say, but he's busy drowning his sorrows in his wine glass. Morin is looking up towards the artificial star-filled heavens in search for hope.

"Technically there is no meaning to punishment or reward," Hale offers, betraying his stance as a behaviourist. "And Christianity does not consists of millions of martyrs, as it sells—Christianity consists of only of a select handful. The rest were their millions of victims."

"Oh, the witch burning…" Wong comments. "You white people have had several of those, especially as you started dragging yourself up from the mud, the dog shit and the spit into something civilisation-like. I also think you inspired the Americans with the sequel to World War I, but this time with more explosions and s-laughter. The time demanded martyrs again; the Jews, the gypsies, the homosexuals, wearing little triangles. I am certain a pious matemathician can find many a meaning in that. But death is not the only thing that is required of a martyr—torture adds some spice into it. Burned and boiled and experimented on, to see where Satan begun and ended. Priests or officers, all in uniform. Give a man food, drink, a belief and an uniform and he will gladly murder his his family. Friends? Your friends? If you lock them together in a room with no food for a week…Then you could see what it is, friends!"

"Do do not pretend these Chinese aren't familiar with the Great Angst, Wong," Somov comments.

"Is that your name on it? Imaginative. But it's true. The Great Angst came in spasms, like that of a dying man. And the dying man is in this case humanity. We had the witch burning, the Holocaust… and a third wave, which required far less of a minority and a much bigger sacrifice. Quantity is not quality after all. Our world is in chaos. But even in the death camps and the trials, there were hierarchies and power structures. Someone must always fall to the bottom. So that is the point of this speech, ladies and gentlemen: we are facing the problem of a hierarchy."

"And what is your answer to that particular problem, Wong?" Pila asks, curious despite himself.

"Segregation, of course. If I am resurrected, I will chose to go through with Plan B my way. I will paint history from my perspective like so many historians have done before me. I say we cease speaking to each other this instant. Philosophising has brought no good to this table. If we choose to abandon communication, I think that this last one and a half hour would be much nicer."

"And which minority are we?"

Faith (i), ideology (ii), science (iii).

"The intelligent ones, of course," Wong answers. Mann can't help but smile as if the statement brings him peace.

Glasses and plates fall aside as Emunds stands up, shouting, "You are all behaving like children!"

"Clever coming from the man who fucks and loves and worships our boss' daughter."

Edmunds goes white, then red, then white again. "Why must you be such a child? I too, want to be a child!" He starts trembling, shedding skin: an avalanche from within. There's sweat on his face, physics-defying droplets, water that even his dry conservatism can't fry. "I want to be naive like a child, and eat like a child, and to love unconditionally like a child."

"But you are not a child."

"And some children do not love," Somov mutters, casting a dark look at Mann.

Hale quietly replies, " _Most_  children do not. Too egoistical. Too young for moral to have been taught."

The elephant in the room is not an elephant. It is a monster. 

Deep within humans there are a word they cannot name and that is who they are.

**PART III: PANIC**

It is Pila who starts screaming.

His pupils are tiny dots. The screaming is loud and intense, like screaming often is, but it also has another quality that has Somov thinking. He's waving her arms about, weak-willed like a small child. Humans with strong emotion often seem theatrical, as if an inner doppelgänger emerge forth and take over, mentally disabled and loud. The theatrical attitude is yet another set of behaviour you don't find in animals. Art is limited to humans, because art requires someone to find a deeper meaning in it. Laughter and senseless screaming. Oh, Somov is reminded of home. It is at family dinner parties that all the distrust wells up. He notes, "It is a long time since I've seen the Great Angst in person."

It is Mann who does most of the help, holding her as he claws at him, screaming himself hoarse. Mann remains the stone of the crew. Yashin also helps, but with an air of absent-mindedness. He seems to have taken Wong's advice and does not utter a word.

Pila's momentariy insanity allows for free association.

He is growing less delirious by the second. The Great Angst function best in hoards of people—one Italian hedonist isn't going to last long. "I distinctly recall when my sister had come home once, from the city, and had cut off all her hair. My father started to cry. I had never seen him cry. But he kept touching her face, and her hair, as if he couldn't believe it. As she had done some great evil do him by ridding herself of dead cells… She was no ugly, oh no, the haircut was modern and cute, just above her shoulders. But he kept on weeping, demanding an answer, wanting to know why she had rid herself of her flowing locks. I cannot remember what she answered. I... cannot… remember…"

"I do not like monologues," Lee admits. Upon Somov's cough-laugh, he scowls, "But I like yours less."

Somov comes face to face with Pila, and finds hints of resignedness hidden within the gray and brown tangle of muscle fibers comprising Lee's irises. Hale, usually so vocal when it comes to human behaviour, elects to stay silent about Pila's condition. Psychology, however it may buoy him, is not quite the Α and the Ω. Human language dies and rots on his tongue. Also Oita, Ostro, Yashin and Edmunds have succumbed to silence. All in all, 5/12 have decided to stop communicating with each other, waiting only for dispatch and oblivion. Somov wonders if their madness isn't the worst kind.

A fight breaks out between Wong and Lee.

Animalistic and barbaric, Somov imagines them killing each other. Lee would lose his positive human view and kick Wong if he fell, twice in the ribs and once in the groin. Lee is also a nasty fucker: he would have tried to shove his thumbs into Wong's eyes. However, Wong would take a bite of Lee's cheek before that, one that'd require several stitches and lots of morphine. Of course, the fight has not progressed there yet.

Onlookers have gathered around them, and Mann is focused on halting another one of Pila's panic attacks. When Somov finally turns around to inspect the fight, the first thing he sees is Wong hits Lee in the mouth so violently that blood literal spurted out of him. He fell and rolled backwards. But almost immediately was he up again. He stood, silent for a moment, eyes empty. Like a cat, he ran towards Wong again. They were both shouting and screaming, a garbled mess of not-words. The gruesome noise of fists hitting meat. Both faces covered in blood. It was a fight to the death.

Yashin and Ostro have started praying. Oita, surprisingly, reveals herself to have grown up in an eastern orthodox home, a faith which reveals itself in her last moments. An insane mantra. 

Screaming, fighting, praying, and silence.

"Everybody calm down!" Mann demands, but nobody listens.

It is space itself who halts them. The ship starts shaking. Every cable, every beam, each sheet of metal; the whole mess thrums with a nervous energy. The glasses clink and the art—books, pantings, vintage CDs—fall. Louis Armstrong starts grating and the planetarium snaps off and on until it becomes the blue screen of death and then a void. Nothingness. An abyss. (Somov tears his gaze away and breathes, hard.)

 **READY FOR LAUNCH**  the computer says, automated and robotised.

Ostro whispers a word.

And it is like that Oita shits herself in the name of God.

**EPILOGUE**

Twelve pairs of human feet, tapping relentlessly.

He finds Miller tracing a Cocktau line drawing with a thin finger, not looking half as ill as before. In contrast, the rest of the crew wear expression of despair, or of nothingness, walking towards their pods. The dining area is completely destroyed.

"So I managed to figure out everybody's downfall," Somov admits, "except yours." 

"Yours is despair, yeah?" Miller asks. Somov frowns and nods. "You managed to break them, too. Except Mann. I hope it was worth it."

"...I kept on wondering why you were vomited. I originally thought you were the first to realise the futility of our situation—but you did not puke under the Attack of the Great Angst."

"Oh I wasn't puking 'cos I'm afraid of love, humanity, responsibility, egoism, collectivism, faith, pleasure, loneliness, pain or absurdity." Miller winks. "I just get seasick real' easy."

Somov finds himself laughing. Harder and harder. Gasping for air. Holding his stomach and embracing her not to fall. Miller is laughing too, laughing, laughing and laughing and laughing.

And slowly, silently—

Tomorrow crashes in.


End file.
